


Church of Loki

by Drachenkinder



Category: Loki - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-05-18 07:09:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 6,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14848092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drachenkinder/pseuds/Drachenkinder
Summary: Meditations and misc. bullshit on worshiping Loki.





	1. Chapter 1

I worship a trickster god

Why would I worship a trickster god? A god of chaos and mischief and mayhem? 

Realistically I’m agnostic, if you have a belief system and it works for you great. Don’t try to shove it down my throat. I bite.

But the universe, not to mention day to day life, is so damn random I really can’t believe in any overall plan or order or anyone in charge who gives a rat’s ass. 

Which brings me to Loki. I mean if I’m going to worship a god, I want a god who either seems to fit in with observable reality or stands for some of the stuff I think is important. 

So does he do random crap and let the chips fall where they may? Yeppers.

Does he challenge order and staid tradition? That’s a yes. 

Is he a smart ass who figures out how to solve problems with his mind instead of his muscles? Three for three. 

Does he question authority and point out its obvious stupidity and hypocrisy? I’d say so. 

Is he an outsider who can never really measure up to the status quo? Un huh.

Is he a shapeshifting, gender queer, kink driven, not only did I did fuck your wife, your mom and your grandpa, but they all loved it so much I got a car out of the deal, bastard? This is a god I could really get behind. 

But wait, some of these things are modern interpretations. You can’t just make up a bunch of crap and then decide that’s what your god is about. 

Really? It’s pretty much what we’ve been doing for as long as we’ve believed in gods. Not to mention this is the god of making shit up. The tale teller, the story writer, the silver tongued king of bullshit and insults.

Why not worship the god that reflects the chaos of creation, the one who changes to meet challenges? The irreverent, thinking problem solver. The one who says to his worshippers,  
“Do what the fuck you want. Just don’t come whining to me when the shit hits the fan ‘cause I don’t give a damn. I got my own problems. “


	2. First Rite

Oh my god, my lord of chaos and cleverness, let me worship you. With lips and tongue and slow lingering touches, in the hollows of throat and hip and across the calloused palms of your pinioned hands. Let me feel your fingers curl and your nails mark my cheekbones in ancient runes as I bury my teeth in your hallowed flesh. I’ll stroke my fingertips up your arms, over your shoulders and run red burning streaks down your chest and ribs, and outline the muscles of your belly, taunt with desire.

Know my devotion, oh trickster as I kneel before you and lick and kiss, caress and nip from fettered ankle to the tender skin of your trembling inner thigh. Let my breath play hot upon your rising desire and let me taste the fire of your need on the tip of my tongue.

When I rise and look with hunger into your widened eyes, when I fist your hair in my rough mortal hands and I bare your throat to my brutal mouth, then my god you will doubt not my fervor. For I would write my prayers upon your pale, sweat slick skin with tooth and nail and the intimate pain of your own steel. I will feel your body dance to my desecrating touch and hear your voice raised in desperate hymns and watch for the sweet sacred moment when you transcend the bounds of carnal flesh and ascend into heaven.

And then and only then my beloved, while you fly on wings of passion will I take you. Thrust deep into the blessed heat of your shuddering embrace and I give myself over to your holy fire. When we are one, when my breath is your breath, my cock in your sheathed in your sanctified ass, your tears and mine comingled, and you claim my mouth in a bloody kiss then know, oh Loki, that I am Thine.


	3. Second Rite

Scouring

“Strip” he said “for I would know you without your barriers intact.”

And clothing falls to reveal flaws and scars and the marks of age.

“Not so nice are you? Old and weak and dying in every mortal breath. Clumsy in movement and ugly in feature.” He taunts.

“So I am.” Because there is no defense of a fact.

“Why would I bother? One of over seven billion, and so many stronger, handsomer, prettier and younger. Why are you worth my time?” He paces and sneers. Beautiful and vicious.

“You tell me. You are here.” A touch of defiance. Naked in his gaze.

“As are you. What can you offer?” he asks and raises his head and narrows his eyes.

“Devotion?” Meet those cold emerald eyes.

He laughs, “I have a million who will swear that to me. If I wanted devotion I would buy a dog. Have you anything more?”

“Intelligence?” Watching as he circles.  
  
“Cleverness, you mean and little enough of that. You are slow to think and slower to act. You struggle to hold a conversation, you speak too much and babble in inconsequence. ” The laugh is soft and mocking.

“True enough.” For why disassemble?

“Are you brave? Wealthy? Innovative? Do you create art for the ages? Do your friends clamor for your attention?” He smiles a shark’s grin, smelling blood.

“No. None of that. I have no friends.” They are dead. 

“No you do not. You create nothing of value and when you draw your last breath the world will not even notice you are gone.” He hisses his breath hot on bare skin.

“That I know. Everything becomes dust in time. Even you my Lord.”

He strikes hard and heat blooms. His hand closes tight enough to constrict breathing. 

“I ask again. What do you have to offer?” and a bone rattling shake emphasizes each word.

Passion surges into words. “Pain. Loss. Rage. Despair. I’ve looked into the abyss and know the fight is pointless and I fight anyway. I lose, I fall and I get back up. I try and I fail and I keep on trying. I weep at injustice and dry my tears and face another day knowing it brings only more pain, yet I will not stop striving. And when death comes for me as it has for those I loved I will spit in its face. And I know my only reward is oblivion.” Hands clenched.

“Ah!” His embrace is cold and harsh as an Arctic wind. “You **are** one of mine.”


	4. Third Rite

Midnight, the weather is hot and heavy with the promise of more rain and the hum of insects fills the sultry dark. Sweat drips down His back plastering His thin sleeveless shirt to His slender shoulders. His eyes are dark forests filled with secrets that blur and change with every tilt of His head. He smells of the heated sap of the cedar trees that cast Him into shadow and the rank stale mud that seeps between His bare toes. His pants hang low on His hips, the linen sagging in the humid atmosphere giving a glimpse of pale skin and night black hairs that trail down.

“I thought you are a creature of ice and winter.”

“I am.” And His breath fogs in the muggy air.

“So why are you here?”

He holds a glass up and swirls it, faint tinkles as the ice cubes clink together and a frost of salt etches the rim.

“Did you know both lime and oranges bloom in December?” His tongue licks out across the salt and His eyes are hot with promise. He takes a sip. “Ice and winter in a glass.”

“And tequila? What has that to do with winter?”

“Nothing. I like the way it tastes.” And the smile is slow and wicked. “The flavors of grass and iron remind me of summer warmed skin, smeared with a touch of blood.”

He cocks His head and listens a second before their voices break apart the night into yips and howls that echo and overlap and chase each other into complex barking descants. 

The silence after is tense with the fear of small things holding their breath. 

The crickets attempt a few testing chirps and the insect drone resumes.

“Friends of yours?”

“Kith and kin in a sense.” 

He licks the last of the salt from the rim and tilts his head back, exposing His long throat and emptying the glass in slow sensuous swallows. He lowers His head and holds an ice cube between His pale lips. 

Inviting.

His lips are as cold as the cube, but His mouth is warm, and His tongue shares the bit of ice until it melts in mutual heat. 

He breaks the kiss and steps back, sweat shines on His cheek.

“It’s too hot to fuck.” He says with a laugh.

“It’s never too hot to fuck, you bastard.” And the panting growl amuses Him.

He shakes His head and His hair is a cloak that falls to cover Him in darkness as He slips deeper into the shade under the trees.

“It is for me.” 

His mocking laughter dissolves into the raucous cry of crows taking wing.


	5. Fourth Rite

Shall I build your altar   
Of black spruce and sky iron  
Laid with mistletoe sprig  
And coarse threaded needle?

 

You mock me?  
Never my Lord.

 

Shall I clothe my skin   
In a rough wolf’s pelt cloak  
White horse tail trailing  
And green snakeskin gloves?

 

You mock me?  
Never my Lord.

 

Shall I shed my blood  
In dark recognition  
Of a doomed brother’s pact  
And he who betrayed it?

 

You mock me?  
Never my Lord.

 

Shall I sing you praise  
With my harsh crow’s voice  
Of blind furious loss  
And desolate laughter?

 

You mock me?  
Never my Lord

 

Shall I weave in deceit  
A fishnet of insult   
To catch the unwary  
And bind with love’s cruel chains?

 

You mock me?  
Of course my Lord.  
Little liar. 


	6. Fifth Rite

“What are you doing?” Raised eyebrow and tilt of head. He paces at the edge of awareness.

“Trying to invoke you.” Moving the words around to get the tone just right, serious and hungry with just a tough of… petulance? Sarcasm? 

“Is it working?” A soft laugh, depreciating. He crouches to look at the writing.

“Not that I can tell.” Which earns a hard grip, fingers pressing deep enough that breathing is a rasp.

“Invoke or provoke? You’re dangerously close to the wrong one.” He whispers warm and intimate through the pressure is not released. 

His skin tastes of tears and bitterness. “They are not the same? You need my irreverence as much as I need your chaos.”

“So that is what you want from me? Chaos? Shall I rain confusion on your enemies? Destroy the ones who hurt you?” The hold is released, but the air is cold with calculation. 

“Nothing so petty. The ones who hurt me, hurt me with their absence. And that was neither their choice nor mine.” And his fingers are long and slender and cold pulling heat where they touch.

“Then why are you bothering me? I have other concerns then to bandy words with the likes of you.” So nonchalant but there is a spark of interest in his eyes.

“Chaos is what I desire. Change. Not knowing how the story ends.” The words are a rush. “Seeing the unimaginable randomness of each day.” Empty as the admission is released.

“Most would say that is madness.” And there is the softest of caresses. A brush of lips.

“To deny the truth is madness. Give me the strength to see clearly.” 

“You ask truth of the Liesmith?”

“Yes.” The void beckons in all its destructive beauty.

“Ask again when you have truly managed to piss me off.”


	7. Sixth Rite

To change

Take the first step

Ok but it’s not about the first step, first step is easy 

It’s the fifth step

the ninth step

the I am so bored of this shit step

that is hard.

That’s why I need the bit in my mouth, the spur in my flank, the whip descending that drives me like a recalcitrant horse out into the storm.

 

*You need to be ridden?* 

You know what I meant. It’s not all about sex.

*It could be. Think incentive.*

Oh right, I forgot. You’re god of sex on the hoof.

*And you’re the worshipper of head on a platter.*

When you put it that way… could we do without the platter?

*Now who’s going there?*

Fuck! This was supposed to be about change and we are right back to trading innuendos and insults.

*And death threats, don’t forget the death threats. I wouldn’t want you to think I’d gone soft.*

Oh never that my Lord.

*Was that a smirk? That was a fucking smirk! You unmitigated mortal bastard, I smirk. You tremble in fear and adoration.*

Of course my Lord.

*I don’t need to come here for this. I can get this shit at home.*

Change? How to? Could we discuss?

*Get off your ass and do it. That’s how.*

That was so very helpful

*Of course it was. And lay off the sarcasm. That’s mine too.*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you make the mistake of trying for a serious conversation and your god is not in the mood.


	8. Seventh Rite

And the god Loki stirred from his long rest and said.. “Verily what are these mortals up to?”For he had heard his name.

And lo his name and the likeness of a man bearing his name, the Hiddleston, was shown in houses of worship across the lands. And many were those who said:

“It’s supposed to be about Thor, but Loki really made the movie.”

And the god Loki was much pleased for ever had the Thunderer been a target for his mischief and to usurp his place was ever his delight. 

Soon his worshipers met in large numbers in gathering places named cons and the Hiddleston did appear and address them in the god Loki’s name and they swore allegiance to him. And called themselves his army.

And the god Loki was amused.

A second time were the houses of worship filled and the god Loki heard his name borne again by the Hiddleston and lo though the sermons showed the downfall of the god yet again did the worshippers say:

“OMG did you see the scene when Loki stabbed Thor? The feels. I was crying.”

And the god Loki was pleased for again was his name and likeness on the lips and computer screens of the devout. And stories were written of his adventures and his followers did increase.

And the Hiddleston spoke his name in words of charity and love in many interviews. And the followers did increase in the diligence of their worship.

A third time were the houses of worship filled and again the god Loki was much hailed and those who loved not the sermon yet loved the god and said:

“Loki was a joy to watch even if Dark World isn’t the best Thor movie.”

 

And the god Loki was very happy as his worshippers grew even more numerous. And the Hiddleston expounded on his pleasure at portraying the god and his words were insightful. Thus the god Loki was merciful and only allowed the Hiddleston to be embarrassed in a few interviews. For the god Loki said: “Hey it’s funny to watch him blush.”

But then a dark time came upon the worshippers of the god, for a forth sermon was written and it was shown in the houses of worship and lo the worshippers were split into factions. For some were angry at the portrayal of their god and others were happy about it. Lo did the battles rage on the tumblr and many were the unfollowed. And hurtful were the comments.

Yet the god Loki was amused for ever was conflict his way and both factions were just as fanatical about his worship and he reveled in their attentions.

And the Thunderer turned from his work in the fields of Iceland and the scattered alters of the pagans and said: “Uncle what are you cackling about?”

And the god Loki said, “No longer am I your Uncle but now your brother, and Odin claims us both as sons. By the way he’s a total prick.”

And the Thunderer was wroth at the words of the god Loki and answered “How can this be? For is not our saga written in the words of Snorri Sturluson in the prose edda?

And the god Loki said. “Hey that’s old shit and now mine is written in the words of Al Ewing, and Kieron Gillian, Ashly Edward Miller and Zack Stentz and others too numerous to name. And every day more and more of my stories are appearing on AO3 and Tumblr. Snorri can stuff it.”

And the Thunderer was disbelieving of the god Loki and lo did the god Loki show him the tumblr and prompted the Thunderer to click on the Thorki tag, for ever was his nature one of mischief.

And the Thunderer did as he was instructed by the god Loki and verily did he turn a most unbecoming shade of red and snort a quantity of mead out of his nose. 

And the god Loki was much amused.


	9. Eighth Rite

Let me tell you a story

Once upon a time there was a little boy who wanted to be a hero. He listened closely to the tales told round the hearth and feasting table of deeds of battle and bravery. Of warriors brave and strong who defeated their enemies and brought home the heads of the evil monsters they had killed. Tales of those who tricked their stronger opponents and returned victorious.

The boy trained hard to be a hero. He took up arms and fought in wars. He hunted monsters with his companions. He became the best at trickery and deception and none could best him in a game of wits. Even though he did everything he could to be a hero, the people never hailed him as one. And the boy grew desperate and his adventures were more and more reckless to prove his bravery and his willingness to give up his very life in his quest to become a hero.

One day the boy spared the life of an enemy and from his lips learned the truth of heroes. 

His heroes were the monsters of their opponents’ stories. They were the invaders, the oppressors, the murderers, the ones who came in the burning light of day to drag away loved ones and leave their headless mutilated bodies behind. The ones who lied and cheated and stole and then made mockery of their victims trust.

The boy’s eyes were opened and he saw that no matter what he did he could never be a hero, for his heroes were only lies the monsters tell themselves. 

So he became a monster instead. 

It didn’t say it was a happy story, Dearest.


	10. Ninth Rite

“This is too damn hard!” 

“Ah. So you noticed.”

There is a breath of artic air that causes a shiver on skin hot from exertion and too humid warmth.

“Are we talking about the same thing? ‘Cause I’m up to my elbows in machine innards and grease.”

“Why?” Sweat stings and blinds and the wipe of a wrist smears a heavy petroleum scent.

“It needs to be fixed. Everything needs to be fixed. I have to fix things so I can fix other things.”

“You could ask for help.”

“No I can’t.”

“Why?” and there is that ice cold touch, so welcome in the heat. A reprieve from duty.

“It’s weak. I should be able to do it myself. My responsibility.”

“Why?” A touch of winter lips on dry flushed skin.

“Stop asking me that. I don’t know. Fucking help or go away.”

Cold flows like a river of mist off a glacier. Shivering in the overheated air. Weakness invades, shaking hands and tools scatter on the sunbaked ground.  
“I am helping little fool.” 

But the burning darkness is inviting. Head resting against hot metal, breathing in the stink of gasoline and motor oil, skin tight with the sun’s hated touch. Furnace of heat baking away all cares.

“GET UP!”  
Harsh words, hard cold hands that shove, slap, stinging like sleet. Hauled up staggering. Pushed into shade, into coolness. Cold water splashes, pouring over hair and shoulders and into a mouth suddenly dry. Blinking grit filled eyes, a god’s blurred outline against the pine branches. 

“Dead worshipers do me no damn good. Either give in to entropy and let everything go to hell or ask for some fucking help.”

“But I have to...”

“Pull this shit on me again and next time I’ll piss on you, instead of using the hose. Understand?”

“Gross…..That would work?”

“I’m a frigging god of winter, among other things. You’d probably get frost bite.”

“OK. Let’s not explore that.”

Soft laughter like ice glazed branches in the wind. “Get out of the heat, little fool. Rest and dream of me.”


	11. Tenth Rite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dedication.

I walk. The rising sun is shining. It hasn’t had time to heat the air to unbearable and there is the soft touch of a breeze. Yet my skin is damp with sweat, catching in the head band, tricking down my spine. The band on my wrist recording every step. I’m not even angry. Disappointed I suppose.

“Put your trust in mortal man? Again?”

“I need more then whispers in the dark.”

“So how did it go?” 

“Same. Invisible. Or too needy. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. I’m a fool to trust.”

“But you made the change did you not? You’re out here walking in the sun, wearing blisters in your heel with stubbornness.”

“For how long? I need a master.”

“You have one little fool. Is that not what gods are for?”

“You are a dream, a wish, the last barren hope against loneliness. There are no gods.”

“Yet here I am. Trust me if you cannot trust yourself. Sacrifice your change to my name. What do you have to lose?”

“Nothing.”

“So pray to me little mortal, before the sun rises too high, pray to your god of chaos and change as the night lets go its last dying breath. Say my name aloud.” 

I feel a fool, walking under the open sky, the mundane spread of farmland around me, blacktop road vanishing into the far tree line. But the thought persists. I speak aloud.

“Loki. Loki. Loki, God of chaos and change. Lord of the quick wit and silver tongue. Patron of those who are neither male nor female, but both and neither. I sacrifice to you my slothfulness, my fear, my lack of self-trust. I pray thee, I beg you Loki, grant me your strength of purpose, your perseverance, your cleverness. Claim me, let me be yours.”

“Was that so hard?” 

“No. But I would do more. I would lay with you and bring forth the agents of ragnorak between us.”

“You would not survive. Besides, you have too much compassion. Fenrir would be too full of love and wildness to bother fighting gods. Jörmungandr would be indolent with sun warmed coils and caresses, his belly full of goats you stole from my brother, and Hel...” He pauses and I can feel the sigh, the sadness.

I answer the unspoken question.

“Hel would be loved so deeply, her bare bones painted so she is the most beautiful of the Catrinas, her tendons oiled and glistening, her merging of life to death such a celebration, that her realm would be one of peaceful rest and quiet joy.”

His smile is full of quiet pain. Even a god may dream.

“Ah, but I am wrapped in legend and shaped by destiny.”

“Fuck destiny, screw the Norns, get out the eraser and rewrite your story. I have a paper shredder for the rough draft others wrote for you. YOU ARE THE FUCKING GOD OF STORIES!”

He laughs and the wind coils around my sweat slick shoulders, causing me to shiver in the heat.

“I knew there was a reason I liked you little mortal. I accept your sacrifice. You are mine now. It won’t get easier. I’m not an easy god. Chaos is hard.”

“I know, but at least I’m not alone.”

“You never were.”

The sun is risen and the heat builds as I walk. In silence. Sweat drips down my back and I’m tired. Each step a prayer. Each day a little bit better. Walking out of the void.


	12. Eleventh Rite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prayer

Loki, my god, I’m weary with putting up with other people’s shit, with trying to sell myself so I can earn enough to pay for my needs. Weary with the clamoring for attention. I am chained to responsibility and I want nothing more than to walk away from it all. Let others take up the burden. I have no desire for this house, these clothes, and the innumerable things that scream a life of pointless choices. 

Let me be drenched in the rain and freeze in the cold and burn in the glare of the sun. Let the hard earth be my bed, the empty sky my roof, and the fat laid on in prosperity my food. Let my life be pared down to the act of drawing breath so I can truly see. All illusions, all need, all hope stripped away. 

Burn away the things I create to keep me from being my own true self. I need the catalyst, the courage, the fucking balls to recreate my soul. I need your wit, your brazen ability to fight a losing war and your courage to spit in the face of the oppressor. The blows keep falling and I am weary.

For I have forged each link in my own chain out of doubt and desire, compassion and love, duty and the terrible crippling need for affirmation. I have grown comfortable with its weight, and I fear freedom as much as I crave it. Though self-loathing drips like poison, burning and blinding.

I have been shattered by circumstance and put back together so the scars of mending split and bleed. Weaker than before. More prone to despair. The craving for death lies under the surface of my skin, lightly sleeping. 

Break me again. Break me until I am nothing and no one and finally free of cloying need. Devour my hungering heart. Sew my lips shut to stop my raving. Free me from the lazy indolent grasp of the lush valleys and drive me clawing, nails split and starving, to the barren, ice lashed mountain’s peak. Teach me to embrace chaos, and lose my complacency in action.


	13. Twelveth Rite

Organized religion is something I simply cannot get into.

I do not deny its validity for those who do. Shared rituals codify worship, give a sense of group which strengthens social bonds.Habitual practices can ensure that one’s beliefs and values and god(s) are honored and not neglected. Standardized dogma helps believers to develop a code of behavior, hopefully positive, and clarifies their conception of their god(s). The historical record of a religion establish links between believers of the past and those now living. All of these things are potentially very good things.

But I worship a chaos god in the most chaotic of ways. Not that I neglect the history, the few scraps of knowledge that we have left. But quite frankly, there is little evidence to support a historical worship of Loki. His entire framework within Norse mythology may have been solely as a catalyst to get the stories going. Even the sources we do have of Norse mythology were heavily influenced by the then prevalent Christian beliefs.

While I do enjoy leaning about the complex ways he was seen in the past, I don’t live in that past. I don’t live in a world where nature and the natural forces of our planet are inimical to my life. Were wolves and bears raid my flocks and devour the animals that keep my children from starvation. Where forests are dark and foreboding places whose most innocuous of inhabitants are a threat to my crops and the sea which I depend on for much of my food is the dangerous home of unknown terrors. Where the hand of man imposed on the natural world is all that keeps my people warm and fed and the rule of kings and warriors is what protects them from invaders. Where the gods of field and fertility, war and order fight continuously against the chaos of the wild.

I live world where the hand of man rules unchallenged. Where nature is reduced to living in cracks and crevices and the few places deemed wasteland, places that are being destroyed with frightening rapidity. Where those in power hold the natural world in contempt, seeing it solely as a resource to be used up. Where refugees and asylum seekers are deemed invaders to be met with brutality. Where heartless order would reign supreme, and its conformist ideology and brutal eradication of any who dare to be different is a very real threat to my existence.

Loki is a god of driving stories, of chaotic nature, of challenging those in power. In my opinion, he is not static, confined to a thousand year old definition. Instead he is fluid and changing. Renewed in every dusk and dawn. As at home wandering the threatened wilderness as he is flyting to the driving beat of a rap song in the decaying heart of a city. He is the in the protests of the disenfranchised and the weeping of the lost and in the winding bindweed and sharp toothed sow thistle that reclaim the edges of farmland. He is not a comfortable, gentle, caring god. He is the whip of change, the goad to action and the fool who dares to scream the ugly truth in the faces of the powerful. He is the crazy risk taker and desperate gambler who loses as often as he wins. The lustful lover who sows with abandon yet will succor his children, the unwanted and frightening, the desperate and broken, the weak and the powerless. 

So I leave him mead for his past and barbecue pork rinds for the present. Gifts of chocolate and drawings and written words. He gets my ravings and anger and fear. The few poor protests I make are dedicated to him. I yell, curse and beg, offer thanks and laugh with this shadowy god that lives on the edges of my mind, between need and desire, never quite believing, yet not quite disbelieving either. The battle between intellect and spirit, one of the many I fight.

If I choose some days to see a windblown blank sign, a sudden cold breeze in summer’s blazing heat or the random appearance of a red rooster as proof of his favor, who can prove otherwise? I may wrong, lost and chasing shadows, a fool caught in his own desire. So be it. If I offend Loki by my casual and often angry worship he can get off his lovely ass and tell me so. Until then, enjoy your pork rinds and beer you dear bastard.


	14. Thirteenth Rite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Appearances are deceiving

It is the deadest part of the night. The bars are closed, the lights of businesses are dimmed, no one wanders the streets and cars are few and far between. Even those distant voices that claw the night with screeching arguments salted by the occasional gunshot are silent now. I walk my rounds happy and alone. He is among the shadows, a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye. I turn and there he is, leaning on the side of the building, behind the parked trucks and the humming HVACs. His hair blows in the cold evening breeze and his eyes glint under the brim of a battered hat pulled low. 

For a moment I don’t know him, and I freeze, wondering who is this stranger and how did he come to be inside the locked and gated compound. Who should I call to report this intruder? I think, my mind blanks as I draw out my phone. Then he lifts his head and grins a flash of white teeth beneath scarred lips. A mocking smile that rips into my heart, sends it beating fast and hard, for I am awake and not dreaming and my god stands before me. I can see the light off the slope of his nose and the curve of his jaw and one sharp cheek bone, the other shaded by his hat. One pale hand falls by his side and the other is tucked in his dark jacket. The toes of his boots shine from the shadow that covers him from his knees down, blending into the darkness.

I can see the gleam of his lips the scars lines of black that extend into the shade beneath his nose and chin and cheeks. I take a step forward, stupid I know. This could be any random stranger. I should be calling right the fuck now, backing the hell up not moving closer into this darkened space. His eyes glow like a cats and the smile widens and a harsh barking laugh splits the air. And it is wrong and right and I take another step forward and he is gone. 

The shadows are only shadows of pipes and wires. There is nothing to reflect light like polished boots, or wet lips or shining eyes and teeth. Only the dull dirty yellow of the building streaked with soot. A car door slams outside the fence and the bar owner drives away. Was it his laughter I heard? I step back trying to see the illusion again, but it isn’t there. Only a wider shadow where a man could have stood, but no man did. No shredded cloth or loose cords to catch the wind and blow like hair. I walk back and forth a few times trying to see what I could not have seen. Then I bow my head and laugh and call him a bastard. My trickster god fucking with my mind.

It’s not the last time he pulls this. Twice more in different places he appears. Once it’s past midnight and he slouches under a store awning, tall and slender, baggy jeans and too big tank top hanging off milk pale bony shoulders, his hair pulled back in a messy bun. Sharp featured with eyes that flicker in the light of cars going past as I wait for the light to change. I catch his familiar grin from the corner of my eye and turn to stare into his mocking face. My car moves a few feet forward as my foot eases up on the brake and he melts into store posters and reflective glass and the shadow of a street lamp.

Twice late at night and maybe I’m sleep deprived and it’s my eyes not my god playing tricks on me.

The last time is morning and I’m not in the city but at home in the country where the farmland stretches flat and sleeping in the winter cold. The pale sun is shining and I’m walking the dog. I see him as I step out from the sun and under the pecan trees and the dog is running far behind me, coursing the frost covered fields in hopes of rabbits or mice or a slow moving bird.

He stands with his arms folded across his chest and he’s looking away down the road and I think maybe he’s one of the guys who check the fields except they wear jeans and heavy jackets and carry clipboards. He’s in jeans alright but they are as ragged as a scarecrows and his shirt is so thin I can see his shoulder blades and there’s a rip up one side and now I think he’s some homeless guy and I wonder what he’s doing way the hell out here and without even long sleeves on. I wonder if I ought to ask him back to my place for a hot coffee and maybe see if he needs a ride somewhere, but he’s giving off these sketchy as hell vibes and my tongue is frozen in my mouth and I want the dog closer because even if he a worthless watch dog he’s a big galoot and might make this guy back off if needs be. Then the wind blows a hard gust and he turns and I see that sharp grin and scared face and the coyotes decide that even though its daylight they need to give a few yips to let me know not every part of this land is tame. I freeze, because it’s not night and I can see the bastard not thirty feet away in the shadow of the pecan trees. The wind blow harder and he’s gone, blown into a torn white plastic bag and ripped bit of dark bluish weed cloth and not a damn thing else. And there is no way any of that could look like a tall thin man with rough cut long hair and pale skin with a grin like the god of mischief himself.


	15. Fourteenth Rite

Traveling with a god  
I need to realize that Loki is also a guide, a friend, a companion on the journey. He is not just the driver of change. So maybe it’s time to accept the extended hand and walk beside this guy who has seen it all. The road through eternity isn’t a narrow pathway is a highway that extends in 360 x 360 degrees. A sphere of possibilities. And I forget that. I see one way and it looks so hard, that I either fail to move or beg to be driven down it.

But that’s not the truth. The truth is there are an endless number of ways for things to go. The future isn’t written in stone. The Norns deciding fate are the one we ourselves have made. We decide many of our own limitations and put them in control. Not that there are not challenges, there are, but how we see those challenges is what is important. Is that barrier one I myself have made, or one others have made for me? Have I forged my own chains? 

The border crosser, the rule breaker, the one who dances on the edge of possibilities, he knows the roads. The sky treader challenges me to look up to see the stars and dare to walk among the clouds. The world serpent’s father leads me to dive into the dark abyss of the sea. The one to whom time is a circle says yes I can turn around and retrace my steps and take a new trail off an old path. I am scarred and angry and tired. I carry burdens that are not my own. I am afraid to accept love that doesn’t come with a heavy price tag. But I need to see that these are all choice I have made. And as I have made them so I can unmake them. And understand that I am not alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't take this with a grain of salt, use the whole goddamned shaker.


End file.
